


Oh, James!

by Sappy3



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Comedy, F/M, Time Travel, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4519371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sappy3/pseuds/Sappy3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione wants to be a writer and publish the life history of the famous Harry Potter, the man who defeated Voldemort and the man she's secretly, hopelessly in love with. Following her failed attempts at writing anything remotely interesting, Hermione uses the Dark Arts to go into the past where she hopes to find fresh material to liven up her material but instead finds a new love interest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1 - Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An aspiring writer goes for a drink

“Oh, James!”

 

 

Part I – “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,”  


 

-1-

 

Hermione looked at the whitish pile in front of her and had to suppress the urge to kick something. It was pure and simple rubbish. She's always thought she had it in her but now she was starting to doubt herself. Professor McGonagall was so enthusiastic with her idea only three months ago, telling her what a great idea she had: “Write Harry Potter’s life as historical fiction! That's a great idea! We can make it part of the school curriculum and I’m sure everyone will want to buy it. It's bound to be a smashing success and you are the perfect person to write it.” Now, whenever Hermione gave her one of her drafts, her poor professor had to hide her yawns as she valiantly tried to keep looking at the parchment and her eyes unglazed at the same time. She didn't want to see it. She really didn't. But she couldn't stop herself from sitting by her teacher while she was reading her creation. It was Professor McGonagall, the teacher whose opinion she valued most.

Hermione tried to hold back the tears but it was no use. She knew now how utterly boring she truly was. She could memorize spell-books and enchantments (so she could drone and regurgitate them to everyone at hearing range) all she liked, but could she manage to create something all her own? Of course not. Professor Snape saw the truth of her all those years ago. What she really was, was a good parrot, one that only knew how to prattle on and on and on and on meaninglessly time without end. All she could be was a reflection of other people's greatness and she was quite obviously a dull and flat one at that.

She remembered how at school after her third year's exam in D.A.D.A., all her classmates and friends looked at her like she lost a screw when she confessed that the Boggart that made her fail the exam revealed her worst fear to be... failing the exam. She was an utter bore. Even her worst fear was boring. Was that the reason why he was never interested in her as more then a friend? Was– No, she wouldn't go there.

Getting up from the desk, Hermione went downstairs for a late-night snack. Looking in the fridge she found only a bottle of diet soda and some left-overs from last night. Living at her parent's house definitely had its disadvantages. Some things just didn't go into a pair of dentists' fridge.

She needed a release and she had been cooped up at her parents' house too long. Taking her coat, she Apparated to the Three Broomsticks and started gulping down glass after glass of mind numbing Fire-Whiskey.

"Hermi!" she suddenly heard someone squeal just before she was swept off the bar-stool by a blurry smiling red streak. Great, she thought, it was another cheering meeting with Ron's little sister and Harry's Great Love, Ginny.

"How have you been? I haven't seen you in ages. You still working on Harry’s book? I can't wait to see it. It must be wonderful being a writer, a novelist! I'll probably end up a Seeker on some third-league team and be noticed, if at all, just as Harry's girl, or wife, I guess, but I'm not worrying because I'll just say 'maybe I'm not a great Seeker like Victor Krum but I've got my name written all over Hermione Granger's book, yes siree!' You won't forget to give me a chapter or two in your book, will you, Hermione?"

Hermione smiled grittily and opened her mouth, desperately searching for something cheerful and meaningless to say. It never got any easier being with Ginny ever since she opened her big, stupid mouth to tell her of her wonderful new idea, not that it was such a joy before. What was so great about Ginny? What? She tried to tell her things weren't that perfect but between Ginny's glassy eyes, filled with unrequited hopes and her trembling mouth, filled with silent accusations, Hermione just couldn’t bring herself to shatter her friend’s expectations in her. Her feelings towards the youngest Weasley sprog had long since soured but that was no reason to be nasty.

“Of course I won’t forget you. The story won’t be the same without you.” Hermione muttered into her cup before hurriedly filling it once more to the brim. “Salud!” she cried. She's read that all the great writers got their inspiration getting piss drunk in shady bars and surely she could do no less.

Getting drunk with Ginny was a mixed cup. On the one hand Ginny could hold her booze much better than her, shouting to the bartender for more rounds and chatting animatedly with her about friends, family, Harry, of course, and more while she, Hermione Granger, had problems holding her head straight and her stomach steady for the duration. On the other hand it gave her an excuse not to think up any cleverly wise things to say to her companion that would prove her oh so vaunted super intelligence and avoid her recurring impatient requests to see her manuscripts already. She just knew that when Ginny saw them it would all be over. She would tattle on her and everyone will know what a pathetic fake she was all those years. It was far better to just sit, gulp and hear Ginny's gossip while nodding sagely and mumbling incoherent replies.

Suddenly, a supercilious voice cut through Ginny's latest tale about the wonderful new broomstick Harry bought her for her birthday. Dislodging her cheek from the counter and blinking away the moisture Hermione saw her former classmate Draco Malfoy looking down on them and wrinkling his nose as if smelling something a bit rotten. Hermione never liked the arrogant prick. The Wizarding World may think he was some sort of Romantic-War-Hero that opposed Lord Voldemort for the sake of what was right and refused to join his lines even in the face of his family disapproval and the threats on his life but she knew he was just a whiny coward that couldn't cope with hard decisions and tough situations. She knew the truth of him. He was an arrogant school bully when they were both at school who used to enjoy tormenting her for her low birth and high achievements in his spare time.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here? Sure looks like the 'brightest witch of her age' sitting here too drunk to remember her own name, listening to the prattling of, what was it again? Potter's broom? Whatever has our world come to?"

"You take that back, you—" Ginny was on her feet, face red as a beet but Draco was apparently ready for her antics. Before Hermione could blink he was standing behind her chair calling out to Ginny "Now there's no need to be angry at me. I'm just repeating what I heard."

Ginny's ground her teeth audibly but sat down. "Go away and leave us in peace, Weasel. Me and Hermione have important things to talk about."

"What, like a certain book of historic fiction about the War?"

"Yes, that! Bet you're shaking in your boots thinking what Hermione is going to write about you. Nobody will respect you after that. Your money and family connections wouldn't save you then."

"Is that right? That would be terrible, but from what I heard, Ms. Granger's book is a tad ever so dreadfully boring. I heard even old McGonagall couldn't keep her eyes open for more than two sentences and if McGonagall couldn't…" here Draco let his eyes dance around the half empty bar trying to judge the audience reaction. Hermione thanked all the gods that the bar was half empty. But she could feel her lip trembling. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't! She hid her face in her cup and gulped like there was no tomorrow.

"You take that back!" Ginny was shouting, nose to nose with Draco. "Hermione is a fabulous writer. Too fabulous for the likes of you. Tell him Hermione."

"She's rotten," Draco managed to shriek through Ginny impassioned speech. "Rotten I tell you. Everyone who read her drivel thinks so."

"You're rotten, you ass! Hermione is the best and when her book comes out everyone here will laugh at you. Laugh at you so hard. And… I'll, I'll make her write about how your mad aunt Bella used you as her wet-hankie to get her laugh back.”

Draco's chin trembled. “That's a lie!” he stuttered looking everywhere but at Ginny. “That, that never happened, and anyway, Hermione can't write, so there.” he practically stumbled over himself in his haste to leave.

Ginny patted her enthusiastically on her back. “Don't listen to that fool. He's just jealous, that's what he is. Now listen, did I ever tell about the time me and Harry got locked in the broom cupboard...” Hermione tuned her out. He knew. Malfoy knew, and if he knew, soon everyone will know. It was over. It was all over.

She glared at Ginny balefully. She was still going on about her 'romantic' encounter with Harry. She never stopped. No more, Hermione growled. At least there was one good thing in this situation. She could finally stop Ginny from bragging about Harry to her. She'll stop acting like a sodding doormat. “Ginny!” she yelled shrilly, spittle flying and grabbed her by the neck with all her might.

 


	2. Sulking Time?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has a talk with her mother and with her father.

-2-

“Hermione.” her mother shook her through her blankets. Hermione grunted and curled tighter in her corner. “Hermione. You have to get up, dear. You can't go on like this. You have to eat sometime. Come on, get up. You're not a little girl any more.”

Hermione pushed her blanket aside. “I'm not hungry. Leave me alone, mom.”

Her mother sighed and brought a chair to sit on. “Hermione darling, what's wrong? You can tell your mother.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Has it got something to do with your book?” she glanced at the pile of ashes filling her bin. She made a moue. “You could have opened a window you know.”

“I don't care, mom. Just leave me alone, all right? I'm feeling rotten enough already.”

“Really, Hermione. You never talk about your problems with us. You're always insisting on doing everything by yourself. We're your parents, you know. Your father is worried about you as well. You've been holed up in your room for days now. Please tell me what's the matter already.” After a pause she added sweetly, “Would you like me to call one of your friends instead? How about Ginny? You'll like me to call, oh, excuse me, owl, Ginny won't you, dear?”

“I hate Ginny. I hate her. Don't you dare contact Ginny.”

“Did she say something mean about your book? Don't take it so hard, Hermione.” Hermione didn't respond. “You could have shown it to us, you know. That International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy shouldn't matter. We already know all about the Wizarding World. It's not nice–” Hermione tuned her out. Not that again. How egocentric could her mother be, to start whinging at a time like this. It was just like her. Whinge, whinge, whinge. She couldn't very well reveal to her parents how much danger she'd been in ever since she entered the Wizarding World. She almost regretted not obliviating them and sending them off to Australia back during The War. They were such a bother. Her mother pinched her.

“Ouch! Mom, what was that for?” Hermione rubbed her arm and glared at her mother.

Her mother was giving her the look. “You were spacing out, dear. Really, the least you could do when your mother is talking to you is listen to her. I don't know where we went wrong with you. Maybe sending you off to Hogwarts was a mistake. It gave you airs. Really, the things–”

“Alright, mom. You want to know what happened, I'll tell you what happened, just so you'll leave me alone. My book? It's garbage. Everyone who read it says so. It's boring and overly long and now people are starting to find out. I'm a failure, all right mom? Just like you always predicted.”

“No need to get hissy, dear.”

“Will you for once in your life shut up, mom! Just shut up shut up shut up!” Hermione screamed. She took a couple of quick breaths trying to regain her composure “I'm a grown up witch, mom.”

“I know you are, dear, and now I I imagine, so do Miss Henderson and the Cohens.” Her tone said 'and how mature is that?' Mom, of course, had to drive the point home. “Not very mature is it, dear?”

Hermione growled and stared resolutely at the wall.

“Oh, be that way. So you're not the next Hester Browne. That's not so terrible. Not everybody can be Hester Browne. There are plenty of other things you can do with your life, dear. Swell solid things. You remember the invitation for apprenticeship from St. Mungo's? Your father and I were so glad. You could go there and finally make something of yourself or maybe that job you mentioned in the Creature Regulation Department in the Magic Ministry, not that I-”

“Finally make something of myself?! Finally, make something of myself?! Oh, I bet you've been waiting ages to say that to me, mom. I have made something of myself. I'm a goddamned War-Hero, mom. And I'm not giving up on writing Harry's story. Not a chance. I'll never give up, you hear me, mom? I set out to do it, I announced it for crying out loud and now that's what I shall do, so... stuff it.” She jumped off her bed and went to her closet to find some clean clothes.

“But Hermione, you said yourself that you're not cut out for writing. Why are you doing this to us? Hermione, stop ignoring me. Hermione!” Her mother's mouth thinned, Hermione clenched her teeth, to stop her expression from showing how much she hoped that for once her mother would just leave but it was not to be. Her mother's eyes suddenly lit up. “Have you already forgotten what happened when you were at Third grade Art Class? You should have learned your lesson then.” her mother tsked and shook her with a pitying smile. Hermione turned her back on her her and busied herself throwing clothes on the floor. “You remember, don't you? You made that ridiculous color-coded day-planner with those awful 'illustrative' stick figures for school project. Your father and I were the laughingstock among the parents for months afterwards! And you were ostracized until the end of Primary School. Hermione, why would you do that to yourself again? We both know you're not creative. You're no artist. You have plenty of other… qualities. Why won't you pursue something you're actually any good at? You'll only make a fool of yourself, of your father and me, again, not that you'd care.” When Hermione still didn't respond, her mother got to her feet and gave her a hard stare. “You think I'm saying all this to hurt you? Think again. I'm only telling you things the way they are. And for your information I'm glad this happened. At least now you can stop deluding yourself. It just goes to show I was right and you should have gone into a real profession. You can still make it. Forget about this writing nonsense. Take the witch-doctor exams and get that position in St. Mungo's we talked about. Don't interrupt, Hermione Jean Granger!” her mother hissed before Hermione could do more than open her mouth.

“Slytherin!” Hermione muttered spitefully.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,”

“Really, Hermione, you talk about being a grown-up but you don't act like one. Lazing around in your room, we taught you better than that, Hermione Jean Granger! When the going's get tough what do we Grangers do?”

“The Grangers get tough,” Hermione muttered back, still not looking at her.

“That's right. Now finish getting dressed and come down. It's time for dinner.” Her mother left with a soft click of the door.

Hermione did as she was told. Why could she never win an argument with her mother? Hermione clenched her teeth. She always felt like a bloody sneak when she defied her. But she won't give in to her mother. She won't! Somehow, she'll write her book and it will be good. It will. Shaking her head, Hermione left her room.

^^^

Later, her father knocked on her door.

“Come in,” Hermione called and set down her pencil. She'd been sitting by her desk for an hour now, staring at a blank paper.

Her father shuffled in. “Hey, baby,” he gave her a smile.

“Hey dad,” Hermione smiled back and made him sit on her bed across from her.

“I, uh, heard people didn't like your book.” He cleared his throat. “Don't pay attention to what people say, honey. I'm sure they're wrong.” he looked sorrowfully at the bin. “I wish you trusted me enough to let me read it.”

"Oh, dad. No. They were right. It was awful. I'm glad you didn't get the chance to read it.” She bit her lip. “Maybe I knew it was garbage and that's why I didn't let anyone read it. Mother's right. I'm not cut out for this. I don't have what it takes.”

"Oh hush, baby. Don't say that. You can accomplish anything you set your heart on. My little girl is magic. She even has a diploma from the Ministry itself that says that.” Her dad winked at her.

Hermione had to suppress a laugh. How she wished he was right. Oh Harry! If only wishing was enough to make her sweet Harry Potter love her. His soft eyes glittered in her vision from behind his cute dorky glasses. Hermione shook her head violently. Harry didn't want her like that. He never responded to any of her advances. She'd hoped writing this book would make him understand her feelings for him but like all her previous gestures it was a pathetic squib. She felt her eyes blur as tears dripped down to the tip of her nose. She sniffled loudly. “Thanks, dad. That means a lot to me.” she smiled through her tears at him.

"There, there,” her father crooned uncomfortably at her from the bed. He almost got up, but then sank back to his seat. He twiddled his thumbs a bit before clearing his throat. “It was just a first draft, Hermione. Nobody gets it right on her first draft. Don't give up, I can see how much this book means to you.”

"Do you really think… that I have a chance?” Hermione asked her dad tremulously.

"I do. Baby, do you know what I think?”

She shook her head

"I blame that stuffy History Professor they gave you. Beans, right?”

"It's Binns.”

"Whatever. You told me what a utter bore he was. He must've rubbed off on you some after all the years you were stuck in his class. So forget everything he taught you and this time write from the heart. You lived through this tale after all. You'll see. It'll be easy. I believe in you.”

Hermione jumped from her chair and hugged her dad with all her strength. “I will,”she said fiercely into his chest. “I'll make you proud.”

Her father chuckled. His spectacles were crooked from the tackle. “You already do,” he told her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What kind of family life did Hermione grow up in to make her who she is? I think she was a daddy's girl and that Harry reminds her a little bit of him. S
> 
> Squib is not just a non magical kid in a magical family it's also a failed firecracker.


	3. 1.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has tea with her beloved Harry

-3-

Hermione bit her lip, hard, and tried to stop her heart from palpitating. Standing on the doorstep of Godric Hollow was nerve-racking, on several levels. The horrid image of old Bathilda Bagshot unravelling like wrapping paper and releasing that horrid horrid snake on poor Harry still replayed in her mind if she let It. She was so stupid that day! She almost cost Harry his life. She did cost him his wand. It just went to show how brave her Harry was. She could never return to live in this house. But Harry didn’t mind. Her Harry never let terror or hardship bend him. Hermione took a steadying breath. She would not embarrass herself in front of Harry. Fear, shame and, of course, bashfulness, she could let none of those impede her now. She would not make a fool of herself today. She would be brave. She would tell him at last and face the consequences, whatever they were. Her chances may be slim, but still! She simply had to. Today was the day. He must suspect it already after her altercation with Ginny, so it wouldn’t come out of the blue. She’d be magnanimous and apologize to Ginny (who, as planned, wasn’t about) first thing and when Harry would ask what made her lose it, she could tell him. She’d finally reveal her feelings to him. She had so many neat arguments prepared for this moment. Her maturity (re: Ginny was such a girl!), their long time together (re: only she shared the same defining history with him. Only she could truly understand what he’s been through!), how she balanced him (re: Ginny is a, a stupid broom chaser!). What else. Maybe her assets? She had it all written down at home. Why didn’t she bring it here to review?! Maybe she could nip back home and, or wouldn’t it be better still if she wrote it all down in a letter? She could streamline her arguments, there would be no stuttering in a letter. It would be so convincing. It would be the perfect letter. And she wouldn’t have to see Harry’s reaction when he learned of her feelings for him. Hermione cast a silencing charm on herself and shrieked, long and silently. She wouldn’t be a scaredy-cat. No more dawdling! She lifted her hand and used the knocker to rap smartly on Harry's door.

It wasn't Harry or even Ginny that answered, of course. It was Kreacher. Wrinkly little Kreacher gave her a long, dubious look, made a “hrraak” sound, before screeching “Master! Miss Hermione is at the door.”

Hermione gave the House Elf a reassuring smile. It didn't return it. It didn’t even grovel to her. Its stare was… flinty. So. Ginny tattled on her. Hermione clenched her teeth and kept quiet. Eventually, Harry appeared. He looked so adorably homey, with his mane of rumpled hair, slightly skewed round glasses and tight, hand-made Weasley sweater that intimated at goodly well-defined muscles beneath. He was even wearing slippers, all red and yellow. Hermione couldn't help but give him a grin. He didn't return it. He wasn’t about to gift her with one of his smiles today. How she longed to see one. She needed it so. Even a hint of one. Harry’s smiles always made her feel better. A Harry-Smile wasn’t like other smiles. Harry always wore his heart on his sleeve and wasn’t ashamed of it. There was no dissembling in him. Not her Harry. His smiles came from the heart. They were so warm, yet still touched with a bit of childish shyness, unfeigned and true and radiant as the sun. But her Harry was in no mood for smiles. He was frowning at her. He wouldn’t do this outdoors, would he? Hermione let her grin drop.

"Hermione.”

"Harry.”

He scrutinized her for an endless moment, his lips tight. Finally, he sighed and gestured her in. She followed him into the seating room. They sat on opposite sides of the overlarge table. Hermione racked her brain for a good opening as the tea and crumpets were set between them. She mustn’t let his hostility fluster her. She promised herself she’d be brave. ‘Do it,’ Hermione told herself. ‘Just settle on something already. You’re the brightest witch of your age! You can do this.’ But before she could decide on anything, Harry started speaking. “Ginny says you were mean to her in the Three Broomsticks. Were you mean to Ginny?” Hermione opened her mouth. Harry didn’t wait for her reply. “How could you, Hermione? After everything we've been through.” Harry shook his head at her. He looked disappointed. Hermione’s stomach hurt. “What do you have against Ginny? Against us being together?” he pleaded with her.

Hermione could hold back no longer. “I'm sorry Harry. I'm sorry, all right? Please don't be mad at me, Harry.”

"I'm trying, all right? But it's not easy after the way you acted. It's not just Ginny, you know. I had to read the report they filed on the incident, on you, in the office. They had to call the aurors, Hermione. Against my friend. My reliable, smart friend. Why, Hermione?”

"I was smashed. So copiously smashed.” Hermione rushed to say. “I don't remember half of what happened that night.” They called the aurors against her?! The memory came back to her, all frazzled and fuzzy. They had to drag her off Ginny, the girl’s face was beet red and swollen and her hair was a mess, not pretty at all, she recalled smugly. And then, a bunch of handsome big fellas materialized? Those must be the aurors. Ginny hoarsely whispered something to them and pointed a shaky finger at her from their midst. They didn’t look too friendly after that. She didn’t remember much after that. They must have dragged her off and dumped her on her doorstep. She woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and her shoes still on her feet. Hermione wondered what Ginny’s condition was now. Maybe she went too far. She hoped she wasn’t in too much trouble. She wet her lips and tried to recall what her next verbal volley was supposed to be. It was, it was her womanly maturity, right? Yes, that was it. She was mature, not like girly Ginny. Though, Harry may not appreciate that after her little altercation with the girl.

"What happened, Hermione? Ginny may never forgive you and if Ginny doesn’t forgive you, well…” Harry didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to. She could see it all in his downcast eyes, the grimace on his soft lips.

She would be unwelcome in his house. Perhaps the occasional meeting at the pub, though not the Three Broomsticks. The Hog’s Head perhaps. Damn Ginny to hell and back. Would she take what little she still had of her Harry from her?

"I, I-” She needed to improvise. What to say? What to say? For a moment she considered blaming Malfoy for everything. Harry might swallow it. It was Malfoy after all. But no. She wouldn't deceive Harry. He deserved better from her and anyway, he already heard Ginny’s version. He heard the aurors’ version! It was time to give Harry her own version of that night’s events. “I was feeling despondent because of my book on you. Maybe you've heard. It hasn't been going that well. Ginny, she… you see, well, I went to the Three Broomsticks to get out of the house for a while. I just wanted to have a drink. But then Ginny came over and she just wouldn’t shut up about the ruddy book and all her ruddy expectations from it and I guess I lost it? Malfoy was there too,” she found herself appending.

Harry looked disappointed. “That doesn’t cover even the half of what Ginny told me. She said you attacked her out of nowhere and after she defended you against Malfoy, no less! Yes, she told me Malfoy was there. You tried to strangle her.” He didn’t raise his voice. He just stared at her, as though, as though she was a bloody suspect he was interrogating! Hermione shrank in her seat under his stare. She wouldn’t cry. “And the things you said. You were vile to her. To her and me both. Can you explain that away? You’re usually so good at explaining things.” he added, a touch of cruelty in his voice.

Hermione snatched a scone from the table and held it in both hands between her legs. She stared back at her secret, unspoken love. He must have felt something for he glanced away from her. She snorted. “So now you know. You know I don’t think Ginny is the right girl for you. I kept my mouth shut all this time, I tried to give you the space to make your own decisions, but you just wouldn’t see the truth for yourself. She’s all wrong for you, Harry. She wants you for your name, not for you. She’s immature. Selfish! You hardly know her. You should have listened to her talk about you. She was so crass, she bragged about having you in a broom closet! I was so embarrassed. You could do so much better. I care about you too much to see you saddled with the likes of her for the rest of your life. Honestly, Harry.”

"She wanted you to put the time we were in the broom closet together in your book?” Harry laughed, then reddened a bit.

"That’s not funny, Harry!”

"Sorry, sorry, Hermione.” Harry picked a scone of his own and munched on it. Hermione looked at her own scone. It was squelched beyond recognition. She surreptitiously placed it on an empty plate. “Ginny is good for me, Hermione. I’m sorry if you can’t see it but that’s the way things are. She loves me and I love her. That’s all that matters. Can’t you see that? I appreciate that you care, really, but Hermione, I should be the best judge on who is the right girl for me, not you. And I say Ginny is the girl for me. And, if she enjoyed the, erm, intimate moments we had together and wanted to tell you about them, well, I don’t mind. It’s not like she shouted it from atop a table to everyone. We’re all adults, and friends. At least I hope we are.” He stared at her honestly. “We’ll be married, one day soon. She’s here to stay, Hermione. You can’t have me without her. Be happy for us. Please.”

"But Harry!” Hermione protested, stricken by the thought. Married? She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. 

"Enough! I won’t hear you criticize Ginny. It’s not your place to decide who I should be with. I value your opinion but I think I know a bit more than you about who I’m in love with, about who is right for me. Who made you an expert on the subject, anyway? It’s my life and Ginny is the girl I want to have. That’s all there is to say on the subject,” he paused. “I hope that settles that.” Harry gave her a meaningful glance.

"But… but you never played the field, Harry,” Hermione found herself saying. What was she saying? Had she become completely addled? She wanted to slap herself silly and worried that Harry would do it for her. But she couldn’t stop. She had to tell him. To finally confess her feelings for him. It was now or never. “You can’t be sure she’s really the right girl for you. If you gave other girls the chance. You could be so happy with,” She could say it. She would! ‘With me.’ It was so simple. Just two words. She opened her mouth and gulped noisily from her hastily snatched tea-cup. Her tongue burned. “with someone who’d really understand you. Someone a little older than her. More mature. Who could complete you and, and yes, and balance you and not give you more of the same. It’s not all about brooms and Quidditch! Ahem. Be with someone who truly loves you. Can’t you see, Harry, that I… I know you’d be so much happier with, with...”

"With who?” Harry asked distastefully.

"With me?” Hermione replied in a small voice.

"What? I couldn’t catch that last part.”

"Nothing, nothing.”

“Look, Hermione, I don’t need to ‘play the field.’ I’ve already ‘won my snitch’ as the saying goes. Ugh, I’d expect this from Ron, but from you?! What’s gotten into you? You’re sure Malfoy didn’t confound you on the sly that night? You don’t sound like yourself at all.”

"I’m perfectly fine, Harry!”

"So you’ll apologize to Ginny and accept her from now on?”

"I never agreed to that.” Hermione took a long, calming breath. “Fine, I’ll apologize to her. Look, Harry, what do you see in her? I was sure it was just a school romance when it started.”

"You honestly don’t get it?”

"I guess I don’t.”

"Might explain why your book on me is such a flop, not that I’m sorry it turned out that way. I never wanted to be famous.”

"Come on! You only got involved with Ginny near the end of the war and even then it was from afar most of the time. And I told you your biography will show the real you to everybody, the human, kindhearted, brave Harry instead of the Chosen-One, the Boy-who-Lived persona you dislike so much.”

"Yeah, yeah,” Harry sighed. “You said it all before.” He looked intently at her. “You don’t get it. What do you think makes me me?”

"What?”

"Come on, I’m sure you wrote essays and essays about that for your book. So spill. What makes me me?”

"Your bravery? Your kindness and big heart. Your ability to love unconditionally, to empathize with the weak and the needy. To stick to what’s right. To believe anything’s possible and inspire others to achieve the impossible. You usually don’t want us talking about that.”

"Well, thanks, I suppose? But I meant, what gave me that makeup?”

"You sought connections because you were so deprived of them growing up with the Dursleys,” Hermione expounded from her introductory notes. “It sensitized you to the suffering of others. The bullying you suffered as a child made you determined to stand up for the little man when you gained the power to do something about it. And you built yourself as the antithesis of Voldemort and all he stood for because people compared the two of you and you couldn’t have that. There were also the Malfoys, of course. They were an important counterexample for you.” Hermione took a breath. Should she mention her theory on his connection to owls as the consequence of his love for flying and the traumatic impressions left by Mrs. Figg and her cats while he was young? Or should she go with the safer but distasteful Weasley Influence?

"No, Hermione. Just no. What makes me me, what stand at the roots of everything I am are my parents. Lily and James Potter. Everything I am, everything I do grows from that. It’s why I live in this house despite everything that happened to me here. It’s why I fought Voldemort to the last, it’s why I connected so strongly with the Weasleys and it’s why I’m marrying Ginny.”

"What, because her hair looks like your mother’s?” Hermione spat.

"There’s so much more to her than that, Hermione!”

"Like what? She reminds you of your dad because she’s good on a broom? Her hair is smooth and long like your mom’s? Is it that she's James’ Potter second cousin?”

"Oh, give it a rest already, Hermione. I don’t know why I have to defend myself to you, defend my Ginny, for God’s sake. You only see skin deep. And you don’t care a whit about my feelings for her. You’ve insulted her time after time to my face ever since you got here. After I asked you, pleaded with you, to stop it. Write your stupid book. Don’t write it. I don’t care. I don’t want to see you until you get over your nonsense and truly apologize to Ginny. Do you even know how much this hurts me to do this?”

Hermione felt her eyes tearing. She clenched her lips and blinked rapidly. “Fine, I’m going.”

"Then go already.”

Hermione half ran from him, feeling devastated. She collapsed in a nook in the next street, cast her strongest Notice-me-not charm on herself and cried her heart out. It was hopeless. Hopeless!


	4. 1.4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where a scorned Hermione decides to embark on a fearfully dangerous Time-Expedition into the formative years of Harry Potter.

Hermione unwrapped another bar of Turkish Delight and munched on it, mechnically, joylessly. She threw the wrapper away and it landed on the floor with the others. She picked up another bar. She was sitting in her bed, dressed in her long sleeved pink pajama, the blanket wrapped around her legs. The neat, organized room was gone. She hardly left her bed all day. No one intruded on her, of course. Magical wards were utile that way for the witch in a funk. She felt itchy. She ignored it. She didn’t have the energy to do something about it. She wasn’t sure how much time passed since she returned and didn’t much care. Her desk, which she staunchly ignored, was overflowing with messy charts and diagrams. The name Lily Potter, like a hydra, was everywhere. Hermione didn’t want to look at them any longer. She didn’t want to remember Harry’s harsh words. She gave her desk an angry scowl and chewed furiously on her current bar. She didn’t have a chance with Harry. She never did. He was too caught up with his annoying Lily-surrogate to notice her. 

Ginny didn’t even look that much like his mum. 

Hermione shook her hated mess of curls. It was now, along with her eyebrows, a bright, stoplight-red hue, thanks to a visit to the nearby beauty salon on her way back from Harry. Naturally, no hairdresser could tame her wild mane. Only exacerbate it. It was an even bigger eyesore now. She looked ridiculous. Unsightly. If Harry saw her now, she knew he would snicker. What was she thinking? She knew it wouldn’t solve anything. She could see it in the fixed smile the hairdresser gave her the whole time. She knew it, and yet she did it anyway. She dyed her hair on a stupid impulse and she did it in the very salon her mother frequented every month. At least no one important saw her like this yet. Hermione wanted to yank the whole thing off. To cut it all and finally be free of the rat’s nest that’s been her bane as long as she could remember herself. Hermione blinked rapidly but couldn’t stop the tears from dripping. She sniffled miserably. The gooey rosy taste wrapped in brittle chocolate goodness of her current bar, gained the salty flavor of tears and snot. She gagged and ran, half stumbling over her blankets to her bin to spit it out. She stayed hunched over her bin for a long time. She wiped herself with her sleeve.

Fool. Get a grip, she scolded herself. Ignoring the mess all around, she yanked her chair and sat down. She glared at her papers. Useless. All the effort she put into her Harry’s biography, the time she invested in it, the pages upon pages she wrote and rewrote countless times. This piece of her life she spent closeted in this horrid little room, pouring herself into her creation. All useless twaddle. Less than useless. It was all fallacious apparently. It hurt. With a growl, she hurled all the papers off her desk. It hurt, even more than Harry’s stupid delusions about Ginny. She admitted that to herself now. His claim, that she didn’t understand him, that all the pages and effort and time she spent defining him with her pen, illuminating him for all with her words were worthless, was what really got to her. Making him fall for her was a sweet dream. A pipe dream. She’d already half accepted, a while ago, that he would never see her that way. She was a realistic girl. She understood her chances with him were negligible. But her book was supposed to give her some claim over him. She was supposed to be his biographer. The only one who truly understood him deep down. And she hoped, hoped in her heart of hearts, that when he read it, he would feel something. That he might see her differently. Hermione laughed bitterly.

He took it all away from her. With a few short sentences he unraveled the work of months. Did he even care what he did to her? Did he think she could just start over? Even if she had the energy… even if she had the energy, she had nothing to work with. What did she know about Harry’s parents? Not a lot, that’s what. There weren’t a lot of records, or people for that matter, left from that period. It was nonsensical. All of it. How could Harry be shaped by what happened to him before he even learned to speak? She could count the number of memories he retained from that time on the fingers of one hand. Though maybe it was Imprinting or the oh so mysterious ‘Natural Magic’. The theory of imprinting did suggest early life experience left a strong mark even if a person didn’t remember them on a conscious level. Maybe! If Harry didn’t reconstruct it all from whole cloth based on a few fading pictures and comments by Mr. Black and their teachers. She wanted to prove to Harry how ludicrously wrong he was but on what could she base that? It was all so subjective, dammit.

Hermione laid her forehead against her crossed arms on the table. She shut her eyes.

It was her bladder, that darned base organ, that dragged her out of her room, uncaring of her distraught. She peeked out. The coast was clear. It was afternoon and her parents were out at work, thank God. She hurried to the loo and sat on the toilet and thought dark thoughts. She had to disprove Harry’s claims. She just had to. Her hands gripped her bare knees painfully. Harry, the fool, didn’t believe her. He dismissed all her well crafted chains of logic. Harry was the sort of guy who trusted his feelings, no matter how stupid they were. It was one of the things she loved about him. Poor Harry. He didn’t deserve her wrath. It wasn’t his fault. Everyone around him indoctrinated him into believing this rubbish. They wanted him to marry Ginny. It fit their simplistic fairy-tale of hero and his just rewards. If he could only see the real Ginny. The cow. Was he so blinded by his idealized image of Lily Potter, he couldn’t realize what he got with stupid Ginny? She was so wrong for him. If only he left her. He might even see her as more then just a friend then, he might… Hermione wiped her dripping nose. “Foolish Hermione,” she muttered to herself. She got up, flushed, and went to the sink. 

She looked a mess. So much red. Red puffy face and oh so red puffy jungle-hair. Her fingers leaped into the mess and were buried whole. They were caught in crafty hair-snares. Hermione wrestled with her damnable mane to no great effect. Finally she managed to pull her hands free of it. It looked even more messy now. Hermione growled and sat back down on the toilet seat. It wasn’t fair. Why did the Ginnies and the Lilies get the smooth, silky hair that arranged itself with a mere toss while she got this?!

She hated it. Damn Harry. Damn him to hell. How could he do this to her? She should publish her book. Not to ingratiate herself on him but to spite him! What did she care what he believed. It was all foolish nonsense. Hermione rose and washed her face vigorously in the sink. She looked up. She didn’t like the beady eyes that stared at her furtively from between wet red snakes of hair. “I’m better than this,” she told herself. She was better than this. She looked away. Was she going to rewrite her book? She put her hand on her breast, felt her wounded heart bum-bumping against it. Slow and sure and unwavering. Yes. She did want to get back to it. Hermione was not a quitter. Never was and never will be. She will write the book and it will be a darn good book! She’d see to it. Bu-bump. Bu-bump bu-bump bu-bump. Her heart answered her joyfully from within. Writing of her strong yet gentle Harry was a joy. It combined two of her favorite things. How had she forgotten it? Her fingers tingled in anticipation. She could feel the touch of a quill between them.

But how? The same problems still remained demanding solutions. Harry’s cold, unsympathetic eyes smote her once more. She needed to solve these problems. She couldn’t let the solutions eluded her. Hermione glared at her image. “Every problem has a solution,” she lectured it. “You just need to find it.” But what if she didn’t? What if she couldn’t? How long was she going to waste herself on the uncaring Harry? He was so hostile. Why couldn’t he take her side for once in a dispute with a Weasley? Second Place. That’s what she’d been to him. And now Third Place or even worse. She remembered her third Hogwarts year. Her Harry looked the other way when stupid Ron accused her of murdering his fake rat. He would defend her against strangers but never against a Weasley. Why couldn’t he be there for her, unwaveringly, like she’d always been for him? Didn’t he care for her? Third Year was full of disappointment. The Ministry ignored all her arguments and supplications too. Buckbeak would have died if she didn’t use the Time Turner to whisk him away at the last moment. Hermione smiled tremulously and laughed a bit. She still remembered their ride on Buckbeak’s back. She’d sat close behind Harry. She’s hugged her Harry tightly with arms and knees as he directed the beast. Her head rested on his shoulder. It was a magical ride. Well worth the fright of it. She’d never get to experience another like it again. Hermione sighed disconsolately.

She should shower. She went back to her room instead relocking her door behind her. Sat at her desk and laid her hands delicately on the bare laminated surface. So. She pulled a blank paper from the drawer. She picked up her quill and dipped it in her black inkwell. She stared at the empty whiteness, the quill hovering above, waiting. Waiting. 

If she was going to disprove Harry’s pathetic, unsubstantiated claims, she needed new sources. She wrote ‘Sources:’. Should she interview people from the other side? Schoolmates and suchlike? She added ‘Old Enemies?’. Most of them were dead. The rest were locked up in Azkaban. Even if she did get visitation rights, how much could she trust whatever they told her? Harry certainly wouldn’t accept the word of that scum. She scratched them out. Perhaps they could give her some useful leads but she’d need better sources to validate their claims. ‘Any claims they make will need verificication from Good Sources to hold up.’ she added below in small letters. There were the Potters’ neighbors in Godric Hollow. She remembered old Bathilda Bagshot and shuddered. Small good they were in any case. She’d already did those interviews months ago and there was nothing substantial in them to support her. Still. She added ‘New Neighbors?’ beside the scratched out ‘Old Enemies?’. There might very well be a few more neighbors she overlooked last time but she had her doubts they’d be any use. They all wanted to partake in the Potters’ myth-building. Especially with the Hero living next door. She’d learn nothing new from them. They’d all repeat the same saccharine sob-stories. She scratched them out as well, noting below ‘Sycophants!’ and ‘Egoistic Fools’.

She couldn’t think of anything else. The Potters left no diaries and few letters. She crumpled the paper and threw it at the pile on the floor in a sudden pique of rage. She glared at all the papers and candy wrappers, testaments of her continued failure. They began to smoke and then, all of a sudden, disintegrated into dust and disappeared. Wandless magic. Lucky it wasn’t a fire spell. Hermione turned back to her empty desktop. What was she trying to prove anyway? It was Harry who claimed his time with his parents was vital, not her. Did she actually accept his far-fetched assertions? She shook her head wildly. She was a completest. Every single essay she wrote was bibliographically comprehensive. If Harry raised the doubt that her work was missing anything, that it was, incomplete, she needed to research it. Thoroughly research it. Analyze it and dissect it. She just couldn’t ignore what he said. This needed to be incorporated into her work somehow!

If only she could get a good primary source for that time period. Better yet, while she was at it, if only she was there herself, somewhere. The whole premise of her book was: authored by Harry Potter’s close friend who’d been there with him and seen it all with her own eyes. But the only way to do that… would be to go back in time and witness for herself this magical lovey-dovey rearing Harry ‘remembered’. That was completely impossible. Or, to be more accurate, suicidally dangerous. Hermione bit her lip. Why did she even think about it? She should forget this foolish foolish notion. But the possibilities enticed her. They did. It was every historical bibliographer’s dream. Why shouldn’t she jump back to that crucial time period, risks be damned? There, or rather, then, she could covertly observe for herself all that really transpired back then. A clever, well-prepared witch like her could accomplish it. She would get to meet famous baby Harry if she did. He wouldn’t look down on her in that state. She’d tickle him everywhere and wiggle his cute little toes and he’d be helpless against her. Hermione laughed for a bit. Really, what was she risking in the here and now? She’d grown distant from her friends. She was a pariah now. A laughingstock. There was a police file on her now for crying out loud. It’d be a relief to just fade away. But that needn’t be the case. She was a smart witch. A very smart witch if she did said so herself and careful as well. She could elude the time-paradoxes and come out unharmed. And when she returned… oh, the possibilities. Maybe grown-up Harry will remember her caring, loving hands, not Lily’s! And then who will he want, hmm? Hermione’s lips formed a Cheshire cat’s smile. She’d let Ginny off easy. She would be the bigger person once she had Harry all to herself. Circular Logic was so neat. Hermione sighed contentedly, imagining it all. A kiss. Hot and long and wet. “Hermione,” he will croon softly, then. Her Harry. Her sweet, perfect Harry. His soft green eyes will worship her from behind his glasses. “It was you,” he will say. “It was always you.” Hermione touched her fingertips to her lips. Time Paradoxes be damned. She wanted this to occur. No. Be realistic, Hermione Granger, or you will puff out, she riled at herself. There are no pocket universes! No alternate timelines! She pouted, sadly and hugged herself.

Even so, even if his heart didn’t change, surely he’ll be impressed with her. He’ll be affected, deeply, by her incredible, courageous feat. She’d always be welcome at his side after she got back, implored to share her tales from her unmatched Time Expedition. And in time, won’t his feelings blossom into something more? It was possible, wasn’t it? Yes. Why not indeed?

Her head full of these intoxicating possibilities, Hermione hopped up and went, light footed, to her trunk of magic paraphernalia. It was still there, safely tucked between her astrolabe and a broken foe-glass. Her jar of Time-Sand. She snatching it eagerly, held it up, hands trembling, to the light. It held a few good drams of the stuff still. It hadn’t spoiled. The golden-hued granules still glistened with wild magic. She’d nicked it from the Department of Mysteries, back in Fifth Year. She couldn’t leave it scattered about on the floor after they wrecked the Time Room. It would’ve evaporated away in a few hours if she left it there. Possibly it was the last remaining jar of Time-Sand left in Britain if the Unspeakables were to be believed. Thanks to her foresight, she could now use it at last to achieve her aims. She didn’t have a functioning Time-Turner and lacked the skill to craft the charmed hourglass but Wild Time Magic was contained in the Sand and she’d studied the theory behind it. All the housing did was set limitations and safety measurements on the sand. She rifled through the trunk until she found her notes on Time Magic. Returning to her seat, she read through them. It didn’t take long.

The basic rules were as she remembered them. Objects and living beings could be thrown back into the past but only to points in the timeline when they already existed. That was the First Rule. She was born more than ten months before Harry so that wasn’t a problem. The chances of paradox rose exponentially the farther you went. That was the Second Rule. Or at least that was the consensus opinion. Hermione crossed her fingers. She’ll be careful and hope the minority opinion (who claimed the other faction were feckless worrywarts) wasn’t completely bonkers. As long as they were no more than two of her at any single point in the timeline, as long as she didn’t date her father or steal the still intact Mopsy from herself. As long as she didn’t mess with Fate and the Known Timeline, she should be relatively safe. The third and last rule was: ‘The more you Travel, the less you can Travel.’ It basically meant you could only go so far into the past – each time you time-traveled you shortened the maximum length of succeeding jumps and you couldn’t spend too long out of sync. You needed to recover your Time-Sense between journeys. It was very important. She almost broke that last part by the end of her Third Year. She remembered how frustrated, almost rebellious she was when Professor McGonagall explained it to her. She wanted unlimited time to revise her homework dammit! Hermione picked her wand from her bed-stand, tapped her head with it and cast the recommended diagnostic spell. With some Arithmantic calculations, she got her answers. She spent four months, four days, four hours, four minutes and forty seconds in total in the past already. That meant the earliest date she could reach was January Twenty Third, Nineteen Eighty. As for her Time-Sense, if she jumped only once and didn’t interact with her mewling native self or her immediate surrounding, she could spend near to three years, before she completely lost her mind. Third year was so bad because she kept going back and fourth and messed with her own timeline something terrible. 

Keeping her excitement in check, she carefully measured the Time-Sand and did some more calculations. There was enough Time-Sand in the jar for one one-way journey to January Nineteen Eighty if she used it sparingly and as for the return trip, she could simply brew a batch of the Draught of Living Death and hide her body somewhere safe until she reached present time. Waking up at the right time was tricky business but she was sure she could handle that when the time came, heh heh. It was feasible, by Merlin, Jove and Morgan la Fay! She could do it. She could really do it. Everything was fine and dandy, or should she say bananas and topsy-turvy?

Hermione spent the next few hours preparing the Rune Circles on her room’s floor, placing the appropriate crystals at the focal points. After some thought, she hung a balloon filled with water above her handiwork and spelled it to explode the next day. What she was making was highly illegal after all. Someone would be thrown into Azkaban if it was discovered. It was a bother redrawing everything with watercolors instead of ink but finally, as the stars began to appear, she was done.

She looked around. Was she forgetting anything? The room was still messy. She spelled it to rights with a few waves her wand. What else? Her old notes on Time Magic and the calculations she made today would be damning as well. A shame to lose them, but she couldn’t ignore the peril they represented. Better to get rid of them. Gripping her wand tightly, she threw them in the bin and burned them hotly and shuffled the ashes and banished the ashes to the far corners of the wind. She picked up her trusty beaded bag and consider the matter of supplies. First went in her writing desk. She won’t be lacking in stationary in the past. She’ll be ready to write new biographical notes on Harry and his parents at a moment’s notice. She always liked her desk. It would be good to have it with her. She gathered the many fat binders of background material and testimonies she collected from their shelf. She’d need them for reference while she wrote. Come to think of it, some of them contained good pointers on the time period she was embarking into. Dangerous, though, if anyone from back then read their future in them. She tapped them with her wand and murmured a few encryption spells over them, which, fortunately enough, were minted during the Nineteen Nineteens by good old Bill Weasley. No one in the Eighties will know how to crack them.

She scratched her side under her pajama shirt. She groaned. Was she really about to step into the unknown past dressed in her pink pajamas and green woolly socks (the ones with the little white lambs)? With an oath, she rushed to her wardrobe. She undressed and rummaged in it. What do time-traveling slickers wear? She decided on sensible clothing. The type that always fit no matter where or when you were. Durable corduroy pants, short blue shirt and a plaid sweater on top. Her warm pink parka. Her white sneakers. She gathered a few more shirts and pants, a skirt or three and a bunch of clean socks and bras and undies and stuffed them all into her handbag. Her witch’s robes went in next. She left her money-bag behind. Goblins and bank tellers were too suspicious. They’d distrust her weird future-money and deem it fake.

There was no need to pack much else. Toothbrush, hairbrush, toilet-paper aplenty, a towel, soap cakes and shampoo bottles, hairpins and extra buttons, a first-aid kit, even some of her mother’s trashy paperbacks and her annotated copy of ‘Hogwarts: A History’, she had them all, always waiting at the bottom of her handbag. A legacy from her months-long sojourn of privation in the wilderness with Harry. Hermione smiled sadly. Those months were some of the best and worst times of her life. What she would’ve given for those things back then. And yet, it was during that period she realized she loved Harry, gentle, considerate, strong Harry never feckless, egocentric Ronald. She’d grown so close to him back then. She thought he did as well. Oh! She hoped, she verily hinted, but all he saw was a friend. As soon as they got back, he rushed to Ginerva’s arms. He must have realized her feelings for him. He couldn’t be that blind. Hermione wiped her eyes. She peered into the depths of her handbags. There were still a few cans of Spam rolling about on the bottom.

She was ready. More then ready to leave this time. 

She carefully sprinkled the Time Sand over her Rune Circle until there was nothing left in the jar. She stepped over the runes into its midst. Raising her wand overhead and twirling widdershins all about she cried:

“Veni, inquit, fera magicae.  
Profundis ad me praeterita.  
Consumite potestate sunt.  
I, Hermione Granger et hoc praecipe.”

The Circle lit up. Rays of blue light shot up from the floor and obscured the room about her. The Rune Circle began to spin and rise from the floor. Dimly, she could see another Hermione rushing about the room, growing smaller and smaller by the moment. Her hand stung and she felt chilly.

The Runes slowed down and finally petered out. Hermione took a long breath. She was no longer in her childhood room. It was an empty guest room instead. Were her youngish parents in the house with her? And her little baby-self, where was she? Was she button cute as her father always claimed or an inconsiderate little hellion like her mother claimed? And how did the house look in this time? How did her father look, with his hair still on? She was dying of curiosity to see a bit of her own origin story. Surely a peek wouldn’t hurt? She debated the matter with herself for a few moments but finally gave in to the impulse. She tiptoed to the door and listened. After hearing nothing for a minute, she opened the door a crack and peeked. The hallway was just the hallway and there was no one about. She let out a breath. Careful, she scolded herself. You don’t want to puff out after you just got here. She closed the door. She’ll do it. She tapped her head gently and cast the Disillusionment Charm on herself. The cold, gooey raw-egg feel of the charm dripped down her body as always. She trembled and rubbed her arms. There was bare skin beneath her hands. She looked down but the charm wouldn’t let her see herself. Hermione groped herself cautiously. Skin, skin and more skin met her touch. She was completely nude. She didn’t have a stitch on her. Hermione swallowed a shriek. All her clothing were gone! She reached for her clothes-full purse. Her good old trusty purse. It wasn’t there. Hermione toppled nervelessly to the floor and hugged her knees to her chest. What was she going to do?

 

\--THIS CONCLUDES PART I--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spell was made with online translator, so it’s probably worded wrong. The origin is: “Come forth, wild magic. To the deepest reaches of the past send me. Expend your power utterly. I, Hermione Granger hereby so command.”
> 
> Hermione was born on September 19th, 1979. Add the 4+ months she spent extra studying during her 3rd year and you arrive at Hermione's time-destination
> 
> Why did all of Hermione's clothing and belonging disappeared without a trace? Reread the Time Rules and you'll understand.


	5. Part II - 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where a bewildered Hermione rediscovers her purpose and her dignity

Part II – “The courage to change the things I can,”

 

-5-

 

The place: the Grangers’ house at Hampstead Garden, on a chilly 1980 January evening. Her mother and father: downstairs on the living room sofa, dimly lit by their old telly, copulating. Little Hermione: in the adjoining room gurgling contentedly from her pink cradle, oblivious, stomach full. Big Hermione: sitting frozen on the floor of her not-yet room, legs drawn up, hugging a copy of ‘Hogwarts: A History’ to her heaving breast. Big Hermione hums a mournful tune to herself, vainly trying to drown out the enthusiastic grunting sounds coming up the stairs and the fact she’s totally naked.

Why was this happening to her?! How did it all turn so wrong? Hermione wanted to shriek her indignation, her mortification. Her parents. How could they?! Did they have no decency? What were they thinking? They already got Little Hermione. It was time to stop now. Just stop. They had no right. Their innocent little daughter was upstairs, listening. She wanted to rush downstairs, to throw them off their comfortable perch and turn on all the lights and scold them something fierce. Behave your age, mom, dad! She didn’t make a peep though. She didn’t budge from her fetal position. Of course she didn’t. Instead, rubbing herself spasmodically to stop the shivering, she opened her precious book. Bathilda Bagshot’s lengthy, dry Forward was just the remedy she needed to distract her. Whispering the well remembered words from her beloved book out into the empty room did help. By the time she reached its end on page 73 she’d calmed down a bit. Also the fact that her parents apparently finished at last their ghastly, indecent business downstairs (during page 39, second paragraph, not that she was paying attention) and went down the hall to their bedroom helped a lot. She could overcome this… this mistake. She could. She closed her precious book and laid it gently in her lap. She prayed with all her might that they got dressed before coming upstairs and passed her door. Of course they did, she told herself resolutely. 

Slowly, slowly, she calmed down and found her center again. Little Hermione won’t remember a thing with her miraculously sieve-like mind. Big Hermione will take her example and forget this night as well, somehow. She chanted to herself ‘Forget, forget, forget.’ Not a real spell, but it helped a bit. What a utter fool she’d been. She should’ve been long gone and safe, hours ago. So what if she found herself naked and without supplies. There was no one around when she arrived in the afternoon. She could’ve gathered all she needed with no one the wiser and left. Instead she foolishly – Foolishly! – waited, like a moron in this room. Even after her parents returned, it wasn’t too late. She was stuck upstairs while her family ate dinner but still, she could gather some clothes and even shoes from her mother’s closet and apparate away without ever leaving the upper floor. Why didn’t she? The noise of apparition would mean nothing to her parents. But instead, she cowered still in this room and then it was too late. Then, she got curious. She wanted to see her young pre-bald dad and her baby self and being a ‘clever little witch’, she cast a damn Scrying spell. And oh, what an experience she received. She got to see, in HD-Scry, as her parents got frisky after dinner while they watched Dallas on the telly. Why didn’t she undo the spell sooner? She was a stupid, clueless, stupid moron. That was all there was to it. Hermione shook her head violently to get the images out of her mind. This wasn’t the time for recriminations. It was the time for forgetfulness. It was time and past time to leave this damn house already. And she’ll get her forgetfulness, by the pint. She’d go to the Leaky Cauldron. She could buy forgetfulness in a flask there!

She smiled. All was well now. Her plan was good. So what if she lost all her supplies. So what if she mislaid even her own clothes and was now stark naked. She still retained her magic and her wand. She even retained her favorite book. She could overcome this. With Firewhisky, anything was possible. 

In retrospect, it didn’t take Hermione long to figure what went wrong. It was obvious, really. The First Rule of Time-Magic: objects couldn’t travel past the point of their creation. Her clothes, her trusty handbag, her toiletries and all her other supplies were too recent to reach this date, almost twenty years in the past. They didn’t yet exist in this time period. Only her copy of ‘Hogwarts: A History’, a member of the respectable 279th edition and her Ollivander wand, were aged enough. Hermione thanked the stars for that small mercy. She didn’t know what she’d do if she lost her wand again. With Magic at her wand-tip she was not powerless, she reminded herself. Supplies could be reacquired in this time period. She stared at her door, goading herself to open it. Her original plan from a few hours ago, when she first discovered her quandary, was to take a few articles from her mother’s overflowing wardrobe, ones from the back of the closet that her mother wouldn’t miss, clothes and shoes she had no recollection of seeing – so there would hopefully be no Time-Paradox. She’d feel awkward wearing them, they were her mom’s, but she and her mom were a similar size, she had to admit. She’d smuggle some food from the kitchen for a necessary snack for her empty tummy and writing supplies and a little bit of cash from her dad’s writing desk. He’d never notice they were gone. That had been the plan.

So. All she needed to do was traipse, in the nude, into her parents’ darkened bedroom, with them in the bed, to reach her mom’s wardrobe. Hermione shuddered. That plan was simply impossible. Not after today. Could she wait the night and sneak there once the house was empty again? Hermione shook her head adamantly. No. Really, why did she need to wear her mother’s clothes? She could do without. So what if she was rotten in household charm and couldn’t transfigure a good set of clothes for the life of her? A witch’s robe and hat weren’t that complicated. She’d make her own set of clothing, at a safe distance from her scandalous parents.

Gripping her courage delicately, the young woman ventured out of her not-yet room. Tiptoeing quickly to the bathroom, she took three white towels from the closet and spread them on the floor. The first, she transfigured into a robe, the second, into a pointy hat, and the third, into a simple carry bag. They still felt fluffy. She wrinkled her nose. At least… there. Her new apparel was now charmed a witchy black. She didn’t want a bathrobe after all. She decided to leave her bag’s color white though. She put them on. As expected, the fitting was bad. In the end, though, with a few cuts and added strings to tie the neckline closed properly it was passable, she thought. They were hardly pretty. But still, at last, she was decent again. She went confidently downstairs.  
Forgoing food which she didn’t have the stomach for now, she hastily gathered pens, notepad and money from her dad’s writing desk. She promised herself she’d repay them back to him once she returned to the present. To complete her wardrobe, she picked long stockings from the laundry basket. Charming their soles waterproof, she drew them on. There. She was ready. She’d acquire the rest elsewhere. She popped away.

^^^

The Leaky Cauldron was as cozy and smoky as she remembered. She plonked down on an empty bar stool. “Fire whiskey!” she demanded, not looking right or left. It was time to get wasted.

Three emptied bottles and a bowl of stew later, Hermionefelt serene. All was well in the world. She grinned blearily at her friend Tom. He didn’t grin back, the spoilsport. “It’s all good, Tom,” she explained. “Don’t worry. Be happy,” she hiccuped. 

"I will be happy,” Tom grumbled. “When you pay your bill. I need to close the place down. It’s three sickles and four knuts,” he pronounced slowly. The room fell silent. It was just the two of them now. All the other patrons said their good byes already, she recalled.

Hermione frowned at her friend Tom. “But, that’s nuts!” She giggled at her fine joke. When Tom didn’t join her she thought some more. She peered into her new fluffy bag. Oh, yes. “I don’t have any knuts or sickles,” she explained to Tom.

"Galleons are fine. I have the change,” Tom replied. “You do have money, right miss?” He gave her pitiful towel-clothing a cold look. Hermione hid her shoelessness deeper beneath her stool. She didn’t like his look.

"Erm. Well, I don’t have galleons. Or sickles. Or knuts.” Would he take a pound instead? Voldemort was still around, she recalled all of a sudden. It was wartime with muggle-lovers like herself now. Better not mention her pounds and pennies then. “I’ll come back. To pay you back,” she promised instead. “Don’t worry.”

Tom sighed. “Should have known,” he muttered to himself. “Fine. You better.” He took out a ledger. “What’s your name, miss? You didn’t say and I don’t believe we ever met before.” he inquired.

Hermione hesitated. What should she say. Her earlier euphoria was mostly evaporated by now. “My name is… Harmony. Harmony Gardner. From Australia,” she added on a sudden inspiration. “I just got here. So I don’t have any money, Tom. But! I want to work. I could work my debt off here, right?” This was a good idea. What better place to meet up with the subjects of her research than a tavern? They were bound to pop up here. “I’ll clean the dishes and serve the drinks. I know the drill.”

"I’m sorry, Miss. I don’t need another assistant in my tavern right now. I have enough help already. So we’ll just write your name and debt here in the tab ledger and next time you come you can pay me back. All right?” He put the ledger away and walked her slowly to the door. If he noticed she was shoeless, he didn’t say a word.

Hermione stepped quickly between him and the door. She stumbled on her feet and ended up sitting on the dirty floor. “But I don’t have anywhere to stay,” she confessed, looking up at Tom’s dour countenance.

Tom sighed again. “You don’t?”

"I don’t.” Hermione shook, then nodded, then shook her head again. She grabbed it to prevent it from floating in all directions. She had too much to drink.

"Oh, very well. You can stay the night. The first room up the stairs is empty. But that’s it. Tomorrow morning you leave. Understood?”

"Aye, aye!” Hermione covered her mouth. “Thank you.”

Tom shook his head and helped her up. He walked her to the stairs. “You were a fool to come to Britain in a time like this. The streets are not safe at night nowadays. Particularly to naive strangers.”

"I’m a deft hand with the wand, Tom. I can protect you.” Hermione told Tom.

"Sure, sure. Don’t you worry about me, miss. Just look after yourself, will you? This is your door. Good night.”

Hermione made a face at his turned back and closed the door behind her. This day could have gone better. She rubber her tummy and collapsed into the waiting bed. Tomorrow she’d do better, she promised herself. She’d find a job, she’ll get better clothes and also while she was at it, underwear. She blushed. Once she finished taking care of herself, she’d get down to business. She’ll meet with the Potters and all their acquaintances and she’ll write many many many many notes. She’ll write all the notes! Hermione hiccuped and drifted off to sleep with a silly grin on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Hermione saw things that shouldn't be seen but hopefully the strong Firewhisky will help her cope.
> 
> HD-scry is the latest in scrying spellcraft. It has High Definition picture with augmented colors for cases of low visibility, good sound quality and even veracious smell. Hermione Granger uses only the HD-scry spell. Unfortunately for her.
> 
> How can someone so good in transfiguration fail to transfigure her clothes properly? Hermione as a progressive girl doesn't believe she should be good in girly stuff like knitting, cooking and house cleaning so her magic reflects her beliefs.
> 
> Hermione arrives: 23/01/1980 Wednesday. She was born: 19/09/1979 Wednesday.
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter, Hermione will find her place in the past and begin working on her project.


	6. 2.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Hermione finds a job in the past and arrange to meet her quarry at last

Her head was splitting something awful when a groggy Hermione slowly woke the next morning. It wasn’t by choice neither. Someone was banging on the door. “Go away!” she groaned at whoever it was. They ignored her pleas. They kept on banging. Bang. Bang. Banging. “Open up already,” they yelled at her, uncaring. Getting unsteadily up, Hermione lurched to the door and opened it. Whoever it was, would get a scolding!

It was a middle-aged cleaning woman, rail-thin, tall and sour-faced. She looked more than ready to give an earsplitting scolding right back. Hermione swallowed and asked pitifully, “what do you want?” instead.

"Master told me to air the room. You’ll be leaving now, right girlie? I don’t need to drag you by the ear, do I? I’ll thank you not to give me any bother. I got a sore back, I have.”

Hermione looked away. She’d promised Tom she’d leave in the morning, she recalled vaguely now. “Fine. I’m going,” she told the charwoman. 

Going slowly down the steps to the empty pub, Hermione wondered where she’ll go next. Right now the back alley, for a purge, sounded quite attractive. She bit on her knuckles and suppressed the urge with an effort. Downstairs, Tom was standing behind the counter as usual. He looked up from lining his bottles and gave her a neutral look. “Good morning, miss.”

"Good morning,” Hermione replied. She flicked down a chair from a nearby table with her wand and sat down. She needed a breather.

Tom didn’t like that. “Young lady. You said you’d leave in the morning.”

"Don’t worry,” Hermione muttered back. “I’ll leave soon enough. Just give me a minute.”

Tom sighed. He returned to his dusty bottles. Upstairs, she could hear a door slam. “Do you know where you’ll head to next?” he asked after a while.

Hermione frowned. Where was she going? She thought back on their conversation from yesterday. She could recall way too much of that horrid day. She ground her hands into her eyes. Would the images of her parents, doing… That, ever leave her completely? She rubbed her wet eyes. The alcohol did work some, she decided. For the small price of a few dead brain cells, her memories from that foul foul scry were hazed over a bit today. She shook her head between her hands. Don’t brood on the past. Concentrate on the future, she lectured herself. That was the best way. Rather, not future-future but past’s-future. Whatever. She laughed softly at her own joke. It turned into a dirty cough. She swallowed convulsively. Maybe she had a tad too much too drink last night. Her head was throbbing worse than ever. What were they speaking about? Her plans. Right. Rather, Harmony Gardner’s plans, the penniless girl with the cherry-red hair and bathrobe garb from Australia’s plans. Last night she had a bright idea. “Won’t you hire me to waiter here? Please let me. I won’t disappoint you,” she pleaded with Tom. She lifted her head and gave him tremulous smile, trying to garner a bit of sympathy.

"I told you last night, lass. I have help enough already. I’m sorry… Miss. These are tough times. Dangerous times. People want to stay at home these days. You saw how empty the place was yesterday. If I were a sensible man, well, I’d dismiss a few of my old workers. I can’t hire a new face off the street.” Hermione opened her mouth to plead and argue some more. Tom growled at her. “Enough! You’re a pretty lass, I’ll give you that. Easy enough on the eye. But that’s far from enough in my place! I shan’t accept a witchlet who doesn’t even have References. No one to vouch for her. I’m sorry but I have standards.”

Hermione blinked rapidly. “I can prove myself to you, Tom. I’m a hard worker. I don’t slack. And I’m a quick study. Very quick. I need this job.”

"Humph. I’m sure you are. Doesn’t matter. I’ve got all the help I need. More than.” He eyed her coldly. “Lets be honest. Your origins are not exactly sterling, are the–”

There was a crash from upstairs. They both looked up quickly. That cleaning woman was glaring at them from the top step. Tom cursed and hurried over. “That doesn’t include you, Lares. Don’t worry. Ignore what I said and finish cleaning the guest rooms.”

"Ignore what you say?! I do good work, I do,” Lares retorted. “I won’t be got rid of, hear?” she shouted, brandishing her mop about, voice shrill.

"Of course, of course,” Tom avowed, lifting his hands in conciliation.

"Why you say it if you don’t mean it?” she went on unabated, coming down the stairs. “I come here day after day, I ruin my back working for you and this is the thanks I get? Got the boot, like a knife in the dark, without even getting Notice!” She shook her mop about violently, letting fly a rain of sudsy drops. “I won’t be done for. I’ve got seniority, hear!”

Tom pulled a dishrag from his belt and wiped his spattered face. “There’s no notice coming. You’re not getting the boot,” he assured her, sounding exasperated. “You’re a pillar of this tavern,” he added grandly.

"What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not a bloody ‘pillar’, I’m a good proper charwoman. Stop spouting nonsense, you great pillock. You’re trying to make fun of me?”

"Heavens forbid. I meant your work is essential to the proper running the Leaky Cauldron. You have nothing to fear.”

"So it was mere ‘idle talk’, was it? You don’t fool me, Tom. Stop trying to hoodwink me with sweet words. ‘Pillar’ indeed! I won’t be fooled, you lout. I want assurances.”

"You have them. For crying out loud. I promise. You won’t be sent away.”

"Well. You remember your words.” She glared at him for another long moment before making her way back upstairs, clacking her mop on the steps. Midway up, she stopped and turned back. “If you’re so raring to fire someone, why don’t you give the boot to that useless layabout, Crabbe? The place’d be better off without him.”

"I can’t do that, Lares and you know it. These are dangerous times. He’s my Security-Wizard. I need him in case there’s an attack. He’s got fierce eyes,” he added.

Lares spat. “Shifty eyes, more like. I know his sort. He’ll be at the tiller in no time. See if he won’t.”

"Lay off him. Young Crabbe is a good, decent wizard-lad from an old reputable family. I trust him and that should be enough for the likes of you! You just wait. He’ll be good to have around when trouble comes.” There was an ugly, self satisfied expression on his face now, Hermione noticed.

“Have it your way, fool. What do old Lares knows?"

"Show some respect to your betters! You’re lucky to have me as…”

Hermione stopped listening. She stared, wide eyed, at Tom. He was speaking about Crabbe’s dad, wasn’t he? The Death Eater. Could it be? Was he a Sympathizer? All these years and she never suspected. She didn’t really know him. Not really. The way he was speaking of families and status and sterling origins though, was damning enough in her books. Thinking back, he never touched the hags and goblins who frequented his pub. And they were never given rooms upstairs. Only good old wizards and witches were lodged in Tom’s tavern. Nor her, the realization slowly gelled in her mind. Tom was always polite to her but he never let her invade his personal space. Would she have received even that much if she wasn’t the Boy Who Lived close associate? She never paid it much mind until now. 

Suddenly serving at the Leaky Cauldron wasn’t very appealing. Her eyes darted about the empty room. Tom and his cleaning lady weren’t paying her any mind. She picked up her bag and went quietly out the door to Muggle London, not bothering to bid them farewell. When she got back to her own time, she’ll have Harry deal with old two-faced Tom, she promised herself.

_‘Oh James!’_

An hour later, Hermione approached the Three Broomsticks’ door clad in her new muggle shoes and underthings, which she bought with the money from her great, muggle dad in a muggle shop in muggle London. She was a muggleborn witch and she wasn’t ashamed of it. She sniffed. To hell with Tom and his likes. She shouldn’t be so shocked considering the time period, even if it was Tom – the second wizardly person she met in her life. How it must’ve galled him to welcome her back then. She knew what the future held in store for his like, though. They’ll get their due. Even Tom. The Three Broomsticks, hopefully, was a more unbigoted inn. A wholesome inn where a muggleborn like her would feel welcomed and also where members of the Order of the Phoenix like James and Lily Potter would go for drinks. It was the right tavern. She was sure.

The door wasn’t locked. Inside, the place looked much the same. Two middle aged witches sat at one table eating a late breakfast. At another, a couple in smart clothes sat. Copies of The Daily Prophet hovered before each, blotting all else for them. A young wizard gobbled down his plate of hash and eggs, only stopping for large gulps from his butterbeer bottle between bites. She smiled a little. He reminded her of Ron. A lanky busboy was setting tables. By the hearth, sat a small, aged witch with a swollen leg on a little stool. She was giving the evil eye to a sassy young witch in colorful clothes on the other side of the hall. The young witch payed her no heed. She was too engrossed in perusing shiny travel brochures. Hermione searched the room for Madam Rosmerta but couldn’t find her. She wasn’t around yet. Should she wait for her? Without the money to buy even a butterbeer, she couldn’t loiter here until Madam Rosmerta showed up. They’d kick her out on her behind before too long if she did that. Maybe she should’ve bought cheaper shoes and exchanged the remainder of her funds to sickles at Gringotts? No, Hermione shook her head. Be proactive, she told herself. She knew Madam Rosmerta would be here in this time. Harry told her she served drinks to his parents and their friends when they were at Hogwarts so she just needed to find her. The kindly Madam Rosmerta wouldn’t refuse her reasonable request. Tom just tried to get rid of her because she was an oddly dressed stranger with questionable – for a bigoted purist like him – background. Everything should work out.

Thus emboldened, Hermione approached the busboy. “Excuse me, can you tell me where to find Madam Rosmerta?” she asked him.

The busboy looked down at her. “Who?” he wiped his hands on his apron.

"Madam Rosmerta. She runs the place?” Hermione repeated, going on tiptoe. Was he part-troll?

"What, you mean Rosy? She’s just over there.” He pointed at the young witch perusing the brochures. “Nobody calls her Rosmerta but Dame Mildred,” he confided in her, shoulders hunched.

"Oh.” Hermione blinked. It was her. The heart-shaped face, the pert nose and full lips. A bit rosier and smooether but still Madam Rosmerta's features. But! Her accouterments: a knee-length, daisy-yellow robe with little shiny pink witches’ hats sewn all over, cinched by a wide turquoise wrap at the waist and beneath, matching racy, turquoise thigh-highs. Her blond hairdo was a ridiculous, crimped to the gills affair dripping girly ribbons in all the colors of the rainbow and her umpteen bracelets on each arm… Yes. It was Madam Rosmerta. “Thank you,” she managed to say. It took an effort but she stopped herself from bursting in laughter. Eighties’ fashion was so ridiculous. Well, Rosmerta was a fun-loving woman. Maybe she should’ve expected this?

Biting her lip, she left the busboy to his business and approached her. “Excuse me, er, Rosy?” she hid her mouth with her fist.

Rosmerta lowered her brochure and smiled. “Yes?”

"I was wondering, can I hire on to waiter here in the Three Broomsticks?”

"I don’t see why not. Better you than me, right?” Her smile widened.

"What, sorry? So… I can have the job?”

Rosy sighed. “I don’t know why you’re asking me. My aunt, Mildred, runs this place.” she waved with her brochure at the old witch by the hearth who was now giving Hermione a suspicious glance. “Ask her if you’re so keen on working here.”

"Oh, all right. I’ll do that.” Hermione turned to walk to said old lady, a big smile plastered all over her face but Dame Mildred's glowering stare made her hesitate. After a moment she turned back to the youngish Madam Rosmerta. She offered her hand to her. “I’m Hermi- ahem, eh, my name is Harmony. Harmony Gardner. Nice to meet you.”

Rosmerta took it and they shook hands, both smiling. "Nice to meet you too, Hermi-Harmony.”

Hermione reddened. “Arr, thanks.” She looked away. “Well, I’ll go talk to your aunt now.”

"Wait!”

"Yes?”

"That’s an interesting outfit you’re wearing.”

"Yes?”

"Yes.”

Hermione’s flush deepened. “I’m from Australia!” she blurted out.

"For real?”

"Suuure. You bet.”

“Sweet. I like you, Harmony Gardner.”

"You do? Thanks. Are you thinking of traveling?” she asked after a moment.

"That would be so keen, wouldn’t it?”

"I, suppose,” Hermione rather hoped she wouldn’t lose the only familiar face, and just after meeting her too.

"I was thinking of hopping to Amsterdam. It’s the grooviest! Just me, my broom and some friends. I’m dying of boredom here. I need to flourish, y’know?” She patted her brochure.

"Oh. Well, I hope you have fun. For how long will you be traveling before you return?”

Rosmerta frowned at her. “You’re upset, Harmony. Here we just met and I go on about my plans for leaving. Shame on me. I make a groovy new friend (from Australia!) and the next moment I callously push her away. Sometimes I’m too self-absorbed for my own good. I hereby offer my apologizies.”

"You consider me your friend.”

"Well, yeah, that’s what I said, right?”

Hermione smiled brightly. “That’s great! And, if you want to leave, I shouldn’t hold you back. It’s your dream and we only met after all.”

Rosmerta deflated in relief. She regained her smile. “Well, it’s not like I’m launching off on my broom tomorrow. There are still so many impediments left to iron out. Who knows if I’ll ever manage to take off on my grand adventure. If my aunt would have her way, I’d be stuck here forever!”

"I’m sorry.”

"It’s not your fault. Oh, one day I’ll definitely fly the coop but for now, you can relieve my tedium by telling me all about your travels. And about Australia. I’ve never met someone from Australia.”

"Yes, well, I could do that, but that’s all supposing your aunt agrees to hire me.”

"Oh! Tell you what. You go tell my aunt that if you’re not hired, I stop working for her too. There. Now she’ll definitely hire you.”

"You think so?” Hermione gave the old witch a nervous glance.

"Oh, don’t be a scaredy cat, Harmony. My aunt is not so bad. Just go to her and look her straight in the eye when you talk to her. She won’t turn you away.”

"Thanks. I hope you’re right.”

"I am right.”

"Well… I suppose I’ll go talk to her now.” Hermione nodded to herself resolutely.

"Good luck, Harmony. Be chill” Rosmerta winked at her.

"Yeah, yeah.”

And with that, Hermione made her way to the hearth for her interview with this unsympathetic stranger who was the proprietor of this period's Three Broomsticks.

_‘Oh James!’_

"So. How did it go?” Rosmerta – Rosy, really, she should get used to her nickname – asked her later, when she returned.

"I’m the newest server in the Three Broomsticks.”

"Brill. Congratulations!” Rosy hugged her and slapped her on the back a few times for good measure. “So. How went the 'Mildred experience'?”

"Well, your aunt wasn’t thrilled you recommended me. She said she was sure I’m another one of your ‘flighty, irresponsible friends’.” Hermione made air-quotes. “She went on and on about it! When I confessed I didn't have any experience, she almost refused me outright. Still, after I begged her and promised to work really hard and not let her down under any terms, she agreed to give me a trial period. So I need to be the perfect server. You think you can help me? I really need to keep this job.”

"You didn't use my brill stratagem?” Rosy sounded annoyed.

"What, you mean, pass your threat? No, though I was considering it toward the end.”

"Lame.”

"She's my boss now.” Hermione defended herself. “I don't want her mad at me from day one. She's your aunt, not mine. It's not like-”

"Oh, fine, fine. Have it your way. Whatever.”

Hermione cleared her throat. “Could you still help me please? You don't go out of your way. Just give me a nudge if I make a rookie mistake.”

Rosy frowned for another moment before her smile came back. “Yello. I said we're friends, right Harmony?”

"You did say that, but-”

"But nothing! Rosy means what she says and says what she means. Got that?” Hermione nodded. “And as for showing you the ropes, no prob. You’ll breeze through. Easy.”

"I’m serious. I don't want to fail. I need this job.”

"Hey. Turn that frown upside down. I’ll help you, all right? Don’t worry so much. Now lets talk about something interesting. Tell me… about your outfit. What is it? Is that what the witches wear down under?” she questioned her eagerly.

"Errm. Actually I made it. Yesterday. My international portkey didn’t work so well and my trusty bottomless bag and all my clothing and even my purse got blown away and fell into the Indian Ocean along the way. It was a mistake to travel half-way across the world on a single potkey.”

"How horrid! So what did you do?”

"Luckily I still retained my wand. With no other choice left to me, I transfigured a few towels into these robes and hat. I’m not very good with transfiguring clothing,” she confessed, fingering her fluffy witch’s hat ruefully.

"Ha ha. Sorry.” Rosy grinned sympathetically. “That's some story. I knew there was a reason I picked you as my groovy new friend. I bet your towly outfit,” she paused to swallow a giggle, “didn’t help any with my aunt.”

"She wasn’t impressed,” Hermione concurred.

"You should ask her for an advance on your first wage, Harmony. You’ll need galleons to buy new clothing and to pay for a room for the night.”

"I don’t know. She’s already annoyed enough with me. I don’t want to give her an excuse. Won’t the tips hold me over until I get my first wage?”

"No. That won’t do.” Rosy frowned. “I’ll talk to her. You can sleep in one of the empty guest-rooms upstairs for now. There’s plenty. And we’ll go together to the robe shop to replace your lost wardrobe. Today. I’ll lend you the money and you can pay me back with your earnings later.

"You’d do that for me?”

"Sure. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

"We are.” Hermione nodded. They were.

_‘Oh James!’_

In the days that followed, Hermione settled into her new life. She swiftly memorized the Three Broomsticks’ shorthand for the various orders, she honed to perfection her skill at safely floating numerous, spilly objects among the crowded tables during busy hours, she became acquainted with the other workers and won the regard of a few (they were all impressed with the flock of floating dishes and tankards that followed her about regularly.) What’s more, after a bit of internal debate, she swallowed her pride and employed the winks and smiles and poses Rosy taught her around the customers. It paid off. Literally. She soon hooked a few regulars into her service and increased her tips exponentially. To her surprise, it wasn’t just on the men it worked on. The Witches were also pleased by her cheerful manner and her apparent eagerness to serve them. She was no longer in ‘the Red’. She had a room, paid for with her own money, on the third floor, with proper robes and underthings in her little closet and all the necessary toiletries in her bathroom. Even cranky old Dame Mildred was a little impressed by her hard work ethic and stopped glaring at her suspiciously. Mostly. All in all she was doing a bang-up job adapting to this foreign and unfamiliar Time. Except, she made no progress so far with her actual mission. The Marauders, Lily Potter, or even Snape for that matter, none of them ever showed up for a drink in the Three Broomsticks. The best she got was Professors McGonagall, Sprout and Babbling coming one eve during her second week there and drinking up a storm. She never found a way to casually bring up the Potters to them without sounding suspicious. They didn’t seem in the mood for talk. What a waste of a perfect opportunity. The new her was useless.

As time trickled away, day following day and furtively collecting into whole weeks, Hermione grew despondent. She’d made no progress on her project. Her notebooks remained obstinately pristine. She considered giving up on her oblique strategy many a time. She could simply go visit Godric Hollow and run into the Potters, couldn’t she? She could barge into their home with some sad sob story. They were good Samaritans after all, right? She could be the poor, obliviated girl chased by the horrid Death Eaters, in desperate need of refuge. No need for a backstory then. Or maybe she’d knock on their door, as bold as brass, like those door to door evangelists. She’d be a representative of the The Red Headed League, there to invite Lily Potter into their esteemed ranks. With her glaring red hairdo, that could work, though, of course, she’d need to make pamphlets. Or alternatively, she'd sign up to one of those expectant mothers’ classes with Lily Potter as a hopeful single-mum to be. Lily was just starting her second trimester at this point according to her calculations. Naturally, they’d bond. Two ginger, muggle-born witches on the cusp of motherhood. How could they not? Especially after her inevitable sad miscarriage. Yes. She came up with so many hare-brained schemes. But in the end she decided not to risk it. Even if the Prophecy wasn’t uttered yet and she could find them, they were still members of the Order of the Phoenix who confronted Lord Voldemort three times. They’d be very suspicious of a total stranger with no verifiable origins. In such a dark time strangers would never be trusted. She couldn’t risk being questioned, maybe under Veritaserum. Or even cursed, banished or memory-tampered. No. Better grin and bear it at the Three Broomsticks and hope their chance meeting occurred there, eventually. It would be months before she was forced to give up and return to her own time.

The only bright spot in this new life she was carving for herself was Rosy’s friendship. Rosy’s carefree attitude and easy acceptance were the balm to her frayed nerves. She could always count on Rosy to make her forget her troubles and just laugh. They’d sit in Rosy’s corner whenever they could escape the work for more than a moment and talk and talk. They talked about everything: fashion, the odd, amusing customer, boys, the awfulness of George the Cook, the latest news in the paper, their favorite magics, cool rock bands, their future plans. Hunky wizards. Rosy pestered her constantly to tell her about her supposed homeland. The young woman was ravenously curious about life in other countries. Everything she lacked, everything she yearned for, Rosy firmly believed, could be found abroad. Initially, Hermione tried to be veracious but in the end, she cut corners. Her knowledge of life in Australia was simply too sketchy. And so, Harmony’s version of magical Sydney bore a striking resemblance to her own future-London. Fortunately Rosy wasn’t worldly enough or well versed in Muggle culture to notice when Hermione mentioned a futuristic piece of technology or a branch of Rock music that was still years in the making. She just got starry eyed and demanded more details.

They were sitting in their usual spot, both sipping from their foaming mugs of butterbeer and ignoring Dame Mildred’s dark glare when Rosy suddenly grinned and asked her “Sooo, Harmony. Do you have anyone lined up for Valentine?”

Hermione sputtered her beer. She wiped her mouth hurriedly. “Valentine?” she echoed her friend weakly.

"Yes Valentine, Harmony. Sometimes you’re so clueless. Don’t you check the calendar? Or wait, you don’t celebrate Valentine during the summer, in mid-July, in your wonky down-under?”

"No. I told you, it’s winter there in July. Also-”

“Never mind, Harmony! We’re here, not there, and here we celebrate Valentine in February. It will be next week, Harmony. Next week! On Thursday. You must get a date before Valentine arrives. You must. It would be so lame for my new friend to remain single on Valentine.”

"I, I don’t… Won’t Dame Mildred need a few of us to remain to work the bar? I’m sure she’ll pay extra. So it’s all good.”

"Harmony! I can’t believe my ears. The Rosy Harmonies don’t waiter on Valentine. They flit about town with their beaus. They eat lots of bon-bons and sip champagne and have a smashing good time. They don’t waiter. That would be sooo lame. Tell me that was a joke.”

"But, I’ve only been here less than two weeks. I don’t know anybody-”

"Not hearing this. La-dee--lee-da. Harmony will be getting a fab hot Valentine for Valentine. Hear? Come on. You’ve got this. Trust your Rosy.” She leaned close and grabbed her face in both hands. “Chin up, Harmony. Now smile. There. That wasn’t so hard. I don’t want to hear any more of this malarkey. I’ll help. You’ll see.”

"All right, all right. I’ll do it, I suppose. You really think you can set me up with anyone good with so little time?”

"Of course, Harmony. Rosy always gets a posy of them on Valentine. Finding a nice one for you will be no sweat.” She winked at her. “Is there anyone you fancy?”

"Not really. I-”

"How about Jake. He’s cute. Lean and tall, but he does as he’s bid you’ll agree. With his big shoes I bet he’s got a big trouser-snake in his breeches to match. You can get a nice shag out of him. Eh, eh?” she gave her another wink.

"The busboy?!” Hermione squeaked, face red. “I, I don’t think so. And Rosy? Eww.”

"Yeah, you’re probably right. He’s a boy and a pushover. Not suitable for my worldly Harmony. How about Stevenson then? I could set you up with him, easy. You know he’s into you. His eyes are glued to you whenever he’s here. He’d drool on his table if he wasn’t stuffing his face with scones the entire time. He’s posh and good looking. You could go to all the fancy places with him. What do you think?”

Hermione shook her head emphatically. “No. I don’t like Stevens. He may be a good tipper but he gives me the creeps. Forget about him. Neither of them are my type.”

"What is your type? You never really said.” She paused. When Hermione didn’t respond she went on tentatively. “That bastard who broke your heart. You told me you fell for his ‘kind eyes', his 'soulful green eyes’. You fell and could never climb back out. You had to travel halfway across the world to get over him.”

"Why are we talking about that?” Hermione mumbled through clenched teeth. It was a mistake to mention Harry to Rosy.

“Well, what do you think of Rob?” Rosy blathered on, unconcerned. “He’s got warm eyes. Nice eyes. And his hair is always a mess just like you said your Harry’s was. He’s even got glasses.”

"That wasn’t why I fell for Harry!” Hermione broke in. “I’m not that shallow! My Harry was brave. And kind. And wonderful.” She smiled sadly. “That’s what I loved about him. Not his stupid hair and dorky glasses.”

"Of course not.” She patted her hand. Hermione huffed and let her. “So, Rob? I saw you smiling at him a few times and you chat with him when he comes. You do like his eyes and messy hair, don’t you Harmony? You think they’re neat. He could be just the thing for you. To get over him. He could be great.”

"No.” She decided, less emphatic. “Look, Rosy, if I go out with someone, it shouldn’t be with a customer. It will lead to trouble. You know it would. At the very least, it will be awkward afterwards.”

"Awkward.”

"Yeah. Awkward.”

"You’re too uptight. You're a witch, Harmony. Just smile and wave them off the next day. What will they do, move to another table? Their loss.” Rosy snorted.

"That's not funny.”

"I thought it was. A smidgen bit. Come on, Harmony. Be more confident.”

"Oh, have it your way, but I'm not dating anyone from the Three Broomsticks and that's final!”

"Is there anyone you do want? I know most everyone from the village. I could make the introductions if you have someone in mind. Anyone at all.” 

Hermione's eyes narrowed. She took a breath. “There is someone.”

"There is?”

"Yes.”

"Who?”

"Sirius Black.” she said in a rush.

"Ooh! My Harmony is aiming high. As high as the sky.”

"You mean it's impossible?” Hermione asked, crestfallen. For a moment she'd believed she solved all her problems in one stroke of genius. Sirius was single in this time period and a renowned ladies' man from what she'd gathered. It was the perfect in. If only she'd thought of it sooner. Sirius probably had dates lined up months in advance. If only she'd thought of it sooner. If only. She gnashed her teeth.

"Hey, I didn't say that. You just surprised me, is all.”

"What, you mean, you can arrange for Sirius Black to be my Valentine?” she asked with bated breath.

"Maybe.” Rosy gave her a considering look. “Sirius is a catch. It won't be as easy to corral a stud-wizard like him on such a short notice. Are you sure it's him you want?”

"I'm sure. I heard he's a dog.” she added.

Rosy grinned and sighed. “He is that.”

"You've been with him.” Hermione guessed.

Rosy preened a bit. “A witch never tells. Though I will say this: most definitely.” She winked. “You know, come to think of it, Sirius just might be the thing to wean you off your Harry problem. He'll reawaken the witch in you. Sirius got the most dreamy, blue eyes and his smile is simply dazzling. Will you believe he gave it a name? He calls it the 'Sirius Grin'. He's such a kidder. His arse is very fine. We mustn't forget that arse. Some of us witches think it's his finest attribute. And that dog sure knows how to flaunt it about, let me tell you! I'm stoked just thinking about that dog. I'm almost jealous of you now, Harmony.”

"So you'll arrange the date? You can really do it?”

"I can and I shall. This is Rosy you're talking to. But on one condition.”

"What's that?”

“You'll tell me all the details afterwards.”

"It's a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked Rosy.


End file.
